


After Midnight

by sporklift



Series: What'll It Be? (The Bar AU) [1]
Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Adultolescence, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Eddie POV, Eddie's a mess, Explicit Language, I mean obviously. they're working in a bar, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Richie's a mess, WIP, [ tags wip ], everyone's a mess, no pennywise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-17 14:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12367386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sporklift/pseuds/sporklift
Summary: Eddie doesn’t even know why he walks into the bar with the Help Wanted sign on the door. Maybe he’s just that desperate.





	1. Help Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> **Other Ships:** This story will also include Stenbrough and Benverly, as well as a lowkey mention of a few others. But, this is primarily Reddie, up to the point I don't feel right including the other ships in the tags. 
> 
> But that's enough chatter. Without any further ado, please enjoy the first chapter of this story:

**E** ddie got laid off two weeks ago. And, even though he’s been looking for a new job ever since, and even though two weeks isn’t an incredibly long time to search for a job, it’s getting difficult to keep his chin up. He won’t have money for groceries or fexofenadine for much longer than another week. And that’s only if he budgets with the type of restraint no self-respecting young adult has ever shown before.

Maybe he’s not cut out for this whole living on his own thing. 

Maybe it’s a pathetic fear, but it keeps his jaw tight and takes his search to places he’d never have seen himself working.

Case and point: the black-painted building with the handwritten  _ Help Wanted  _ sign on its door. It’s one of those places trying to look like a dive bar, but is too hipster to actually be a dive bar, and probably completely overrun with half a dozen fire code violations.

Eddie doesn’t even know why he walks in. Maybe he’s just that desperate.

It’s pretty dark on the inside, but fairly clean. A few specks of dust float in the air over the huge windows spilling light onto a shallow wooden stage. There’s a piano there and speakers just as tall as Eddie is. The bar is long and empty, bottles lining the walls behind it and a framed liquor license next to the fire alarm. There’s a cluster of empty tables with menus and napkins surrounding the stage and, when Eddie wipes his hand on it, finds they come off clean. Maybe a little sticky. But clean.

“You can’t be in here.”

Eddie jumps a few good inches in the air, spinning around himself to try and make out the voice. It’s light and feminine and seems to be coming from the full bottles of bourbon on the back wall.

Or, he amends, from under the bar. A young woman pops up from under it, flicking a lock of bright red hair out from her eyes, and leans against the bar. Her brows are furrowed.

“Dude. I’m serious. We don’t open till five.”

Shocking himself back to the moment, Eddie shakes his head, dumbly. He’s sure he looks like an idiot and his face gets hot, suddenly. “Oh. I’m actually here about the sign on the door,” He says, gesturing as if it could make a difference. “The help wanted?”

“Oh.” The young woman says, wiping her hands off on the body of her dress. “You’ll need to talk to Mike, then. Hang on. I’ll go get him.”

Eddie nods, and watches the young woman disappear behind a wooden door labeled  _ Employees Only. _

It’s lonely and eerie in here, all alone. Like the acoustics were designed for song and dance but, left without either, the waves just reverberate off perpetual nothingness. Looking around himself, Eddie raises his hands to his lips and muffles his own humming. It’s just something dumb he heard on the radio. But it does what it can and fills a few of those empty spaces until the doors swing open again.  The young woman leads an equally young man in a suit. He’s fairly handsome, Eddie notices, with dark eyes and brown skin and a somewhat rugged sense of stress set in his mouth. Extending his hand, the man says, “I’m the manager, Mike Hanlon. Bev says you’re looking for a job…?”

“Eddie Kaspbrak.” Taking the hand, Eddie does his best to look cordial as he unfolds the copy of his resume he keeps in his wallet for Mike. “Here’s my resume…”

Mike Hanlon takes the paper, looking it over briefly. The woman -- Bev -- has disappeared back under the bar. Eddie can hear bottles clinking around down there. Mike looks it over, and then back up to Eddie. “Just making sure - you’re over eighteen, right, Eddie?”

A sharp breath in. Eddie can’t help it. He looks young for his age, he always has. It’d just be a real fucking bummer if that’s the thing keeping him unemployed. “Twenty-three, actually.”

But, for what it’s worth, Mike doesn’t look surprised. He just nods and extends a hand to offer Eddie a seat at the bar. Eddie has to jump up to take the stool, and his fucking toes barely reach the ground.

“Thought so, but it’s just something I have to ask,” Mike clarifies, smoothing over the paper in front of him. “Late hours and alcohol and stuff, y’know.”

Eddie doesn’t know. He’s never looked into this before.

“So, what position were you hoping for?” Mike makes some kind of scribbly note on the resume and looks up at Eddie. When he doesn’t clarify, Mike takes the honor. “Y’know. Serving, bartending, kitchen, bussing, bouncing, performing -- what were you thinking?”

_ Performing?   _ Well, that explained the stage. “Um. Serving, probably.”

“You don’t have any experience listed for serving.” Mike observes and Eddie takes a sharp breath in. Here it comes. “Or...anything, actually.”

“No, but I’m a fast learner.”

It seems really,  _ really  _ pathetic. Eddie’s beginning to see why he’s having such a hard time finding a job. He really needs to work on his interviewing skills. He’s ready to get up from the bar and walk out, head hanging in shame, but then he notices that Mike’s nodding.

“Okay,” He says with a small tick in his brows. “Look. I’m gonna level with you.”

_ Here it comes… _

“We’re severely understaffed right now. We needed more people, like, yesterday. If you’re willing to learn on the job, and if you can start tonight, we can give you a weeklong trial -- waiter’s minimum plus tips, and then more substantial negotiating when I’m less pressed for time after that, if you like it. But we can start you now.”

_ Oh.  _ Eddie blinks. “Yeah. That sounds...that’s good.”

“Great,” Mike says, cracking a smile for the first time. “I’m gonna get the paperwork together and Bev can give you the tour. Bev--”

And Bev pops back up from under the bar. “Yep. Go be Mr. Manager. I got this,” She winks and pats Mike on the shoulder as he passes behind the bar and then turns to Eddie. “All right. Day one on the Dream Team. Let’s get started.”

  
  


 

**T** here’s a lot to remember. Like, a lot a lot. The kitchen’s only open from five to nine, and Eddie won’t have to worry about that tonight, since he’ll be coming in at nine. Bev says everyone will help him when he’s serving drinks. He only has three tables for the night, which should help, but he still has to remember where things go in the storeroom and how to use the three sinks in the back and the cash register.

“So, here’s how you settle the tab on the machine--” Bev starts, the same time the door clicks open. She looks up, abruptly, as if to tell whoever’s there to piss the fuck off, but then her face relaxes. “Hey guys!”

Eddie follows her eyes to see a small trio of guys making their way through the door. In the back, there’s two lanky guys, all arms and legs, with their arms draped over one another’s shoulders. Up front, there’s a shorter husky guy with a coif of sandy hair and bright smile. He leans over the bar and kisses Bev on the cheek, not even seeming to realize Eddie standing beside her, too...outwardly smitten.

But when he does, he coughs. “Oh. Hi. I’m Ben.”

They shake hands and the lanky guys follow suit, introducing themselves as Stan and Bill. The curly haired one, Stan, turns to Bev after the introduction, “Are we still having that staff meeting, Beverly?”

“Yeah. Soon as we’re done with Eddie, here.” Bev nods and looks at them with a sudden frown. “Where’s Richie?”

Stan shrugs. “Hell if we know.”

“He’ll turn up,” Bill adds in, hand waving for a second between Stan’s shoulder blades. Eddie can’t help but smile, lightly, at the casual affection. He doesn’t know what it is. It’s just... _sweet_.

“He damn well better,” Bev mutters. “We have to play tonight. And I’m not doing it for five whole hours.”

“What happened to the guys Mike scheduled?” This time it’s from Ben.

“Cancelled.”

Ben, Bill, and Stan nod, small frowns on their faces, as though this is old news, and take seats in the swiveling chairs. Bev goes back to showing Eddie around the register. It’s a touchscreen, and a little sticky, but easy enough to get around, and he’s working through a sample order Bev gives him when Mike emerges, once again, from the back with a stressed breath and friendly, “Ready for paperwork?”

Mike places a manila folder in front of him and disappears into the back, again, to get a photocopy of Eddie's driver's license.  Feeling eyes on him, Eddie bites his lip and signs quickly. He doesn’t have the time to read all of it, but he gets the gist. Rules for the liquor license, policies, pay grade, all that stuff Eddie’s pretty sure is normal. It’s just that he’s doing this in front of all his future co-workers.  Not that they’re looking at him. They’re clustered in a corner, talking about  _ something.  _ Something funny, judging by the laughter. 

He still isn’t entirely sure what kind of place this is. Part bar, part restaurant, part…tavern? Do taverns even exist anymore? 

Eddie signs the last page. He hates his signature. It looks too girly, the loops over exaggerate on the d’s. But he doesn’t have much time to think about it before he’s trading in the manila folder for his license and Mike’s looking over the pages with a quick nod.

“All right, looks great.” Mike says. “And thank you for being willing to come in tonight, too.”

“No problem,” Eddie shakes his hand and, before he can actually leave, asks, “So, is there a uniform or…?”

“We’ll have to order your shirt if all goes well on the trial. For tonight, dress pants and a black shirt’ll work. Wear shoes you can walk around in.”

“Okay. Great.”

“All right. We’ll see you at nine.”

“They mentioned a staff meeting, did you want me to stick around for that?”

Mike smiles. It's nice. Friendly, despite the stress radiating from literally every pore. “Nah. Not tonight. We’ll get you next time.”

And Eddie leaves the little hipster bar, waving to the chorus of “Nice to meet yous” and “See you tonights” with the smallest of grins on his face.


	2. Order Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not that there’s many “finer intricacies” to bringing drinks from the bar to the tables. In fact, it’s mostly what Eddie’s been expecting. Get the orders, write them down, give it to Ben, bring the drinks out. Repeat.

**H** is mother calls him while he’s searching through the  rack at JCPenney, looking for dress pants that’d be short enough for his legs. He accepts the call and then the phone’s up to his ear and he’s saying, “Hey, Mama. What’s up?”

Her voice is soft, cautious, and Eddie knows that voice too well to believe her when she says, “Oh nothing. I was just wondering how you’re doing.”

“”I’m good. You know,” He takes a pair of dress pants off the rack and considers the leg length. “Keeping busy.”

“The city isn’t too crazy for you?”

“Nope.” God. He’s gonna have to use his credit card to pay for these. It seems a little ridiculous that he’ll have to spend all this money to even work his new job…

“And you’re eating? The smog isn’t too bad? Are your prescriptions getting to you okay?”

“It’s all good,” He reassures her, words coming through easily in their practice. He’ll have to pin the legs of these pants, but they should work fine for tonight. “Fridge is stocked. Locks work great. It’s all good.”  

“Good,” Mrs. Kaspbrak says. She pauses for a moment. Eddie recognizes the trek they’re on and here comes the actual reason for the call: “Have you gotten any interesting calls lately?” 

“No.” Eddie pauses, throwing the pants over his forearm and starts to pace around the store.

His mother’s voice cracks. “Nothing from Mr. Sheldon?” 

Hearing his former employer’s name sends something skittering through Eddie’s spine. Something unpleasant and he can feel the frown taking over his face when he says, “Ma. You didn’t.” 

“They didn’t even have a good  _ reason--”  _

“They were downsizing. Isn’t that a reason?” 

What kind of bizarre world, really, would have Eddie defending the guys who fired him? 

“It is certainly not! You’re a wonderful worker, Eddie. They shouldn’t have let you go--” 

“So you called my former employers?” Mortifying. Absolutely fucking mortifying. 

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” She asks, and Eddie can practically see her tapping her foot over that giant nightgown she tends to wear around the house. “You’re halfway across the country and without income or any way for me to help you! I can’t stand to think of what could happen--I think it’s time for you to come home, sweetie...” 

Eddie stiffens. “ _ Mom.  _ I can’t just do that.” 

There was a lull in the background noise through the phone. Had his mother stopped breathing?

“Mom?”

“You always act like there’s something so  _ shameful  _ about coming home! What do you have to be embarrassed about? And you won’t let me help you--and for all I know, God forbid, you’re sitting there, homeless in some alleyway.”

“I still have my apartment,” He tries to calm her. It’s a little shocking that he needs to specify this. She helps him pay his fucking rent every month, after all. 

“Eddie -- you need to come home -- now.” 

“I got a job today,” He says it quietly. “I’m gonna be fine.” 

There’s a pause. A heavy breath. And then “Oh.” 

After another second, his mother continues: “Well, then, Eddie, sweetie, that’s…” There’s a pause. “Why didn’t you tell me? You had me worried sick!”

_ I was trying to.  _ Eddie sighs, running his hand along the fabric display of some trendy new shirt. “Sorry, Mama.” 

Eddie hears something soft in the background. Probably his mother sinking into that lumpy chair next to the whizzing fan. It’s immediately followed with his mother saying, “But tell me all about your new job. What are they having you do? Are you back in reception work? You know you’ll have to remember to wash your hands and disinfect the phones and keyboards.” 

“Uh. No.” Eddie stops. It’s probably not entirely wise to tell his mother he’s working at a bar. There’s a chance he hasn’t even thought through all the hazards. Actually, he knows he hasn’t. He can feel his arm stiffen up under the dress pants he’s draped there. Fiddling with the hem, he says, “I’m a..uh..I’m a waiter.” 

It’s not entirely false. But Eddie can count every time he’s ever lied to his mother on one hand. And this weird half truth, although perhaps more than half a truth, still feels like he’s adding another digit to the mix. 

There’s a pause, longer than the other ones. Eddie actually takes a moment to pull the phone away from his ear to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. When he returns it to his ear, his mother is already in the middle of a sentence: “--ney, I’m sure you can get a better job than that. Don’t your feet hurt from being on them all day?” 

“I’ll get better Orthotics,” Eddie says, hoping he doesn’t sound like he just pulled that out of his ass. Even though he did. He hadn’t thought about foot strain before. “I have to run to Wal-Mart today, anyway.” 

“Speaking of, you’ll never guess who I ran into in the grocery store today?”

“Who?” Eddie asks, not really thinking much on it, checking the clearance rack in case there’s something cheaper for him to get for tonight.

“Myra,” She says simply, letting it sink in.

Well.

_ Shit.  _

And yeah. It’s sunken in. Eddie has to pause, right there in the middle of the overlit department store. Eddie’s never been able to figure this kind of shit out. When he and Myra were actually dating, his mother hadn’t liked her much. Something about Myra not letting him breathe, something about worrying about a woman’s influence on her little Eddie. But ever since Eddie cited moving for work as the reason he had to call it off, his mother took a sharp left turn. As though, if Eddie had the chance, he’d go right back to Maine just to see Myra again.

Which…

Yeah. Probably not gonna happen.

~~ For several reasons.  ~~

But he says, “Oh,” and  “How is she?”

Mrs. Kaspbrak pauses and says, “She seems well. She asked about you.”

“Oh.”

“I told her about the company downsizing and she agrees that you’re just as likely to get better work  back--”

Eddie hates to be on his phone while he’s checking out, but his mother is on a roll and there’s a chance he won’t get another chance for a while, so he mutes the speaker, so he can talk to the checkout girl behind the counter without being overheard and when he puts his ear back to the speaker, his mother is still talking.

 

 

**S** he keeps talking, too, while Eddie’s getting ready and driving to the bar. He says his final “Talk to you later, love you,” as he’s stepping through the backdoor into the kitchen. He punches in, yellow card clicking as the ink punctures his paper and turns around, ready to begin.

Except...he really doesn’t know what to do. There’s a few people sweeping the kitchen and wiping things down, but he’s pretty sure that’s not his job. He peeks into the office, and Mike isn’t there. Nor is he in the kitchen or storeroom. Eddie really has no idea what to do, but heads out into what passes for the dining room. Best to get some kind of push in one direction or another. 

The lights are dim inside, there’s flashy colors sliding over the stage, where Eddie can make out Bev sitting at one of the pianos, fingers sliding over the keys in a lyricless rendition of _Ain’t No Mountain High Enough._ Behind the piano, Bill keeps time on a tarnished drumset. There’re people seated at the bar, and a few cluster of people at the tables.  Stan is stationed in front of the door, leaning against the frame and tapping his foot along to the beat. 

He finds Ben behind the bar, pouring liquor into a martini glass. He waves as Eddie emerges through the doors.

And Eddie slides in behind the bar, and asks, “Have you seen Mike?”

“He’s on the floor,” Ben yells over the music, sliding the cup down the bar to a patron. “Did Bev tell you who’s training you?”

Eddie shakes his head. 

“What tables are you on?” 

“Seven, eight, and nine.” 

Ben looks out into the bar, half a bubble left of the center. Two thirds of them are occupied and Eddie, for his part, can’t help but feel a little nervous as he realizes, with an uncomfortable start, that he has no fucking idea what he’s doing. 

Analyzing the layout, Ben nods once he considers. “That means Richie’s training you. He’s upstairs right now, but you can go get drink orders from the tables. That should be easy enough without training.” 

 

 

**H** is first table isn’t an  _ absolute  _ disaster. It’s an absolutely quintessential Midwestern couple, complete with camouflage baseball caps. Eddie has to tell them that the kitchen’s closed for the night, but once he does, they just want beer. No fuss.  Easy enough, and when he returns to the bar, Mike’s leaning against it, telling something to Ben, and the two of them give him a bright thumb’s up. 

It’s a little patronizing, but Eddie can’t complain. 

 

 

**T** he second table, though. That one throws him for a loop. It’s three snooty looking young women, the one in the middle chomping her gum loudly enough to hear it over the music. And on the exact offbeats of Bill’s drumming. Eddie doesn’t really want to walk up to them, their angry glares remind him too much of Maine and getting beat up on the playground. But, they take a seat at his table and, steeling a shaky breath, making sure he has his inhaler in his pocket, he walks up to them. “Hi, there. I’m Ed--”

“Two rum and Cokes and a sex on the beach,” The gum chomping woman says, yells really, and waves him away.

And Eddie’s a little shocked, but turns around to put his order in to Ben, but not before he overhears the cruel laugh and “God, could she  _ be  _ any worse at that?” and “What the hell is this noise?” 

Still, there’s a round of applause once Bev finishes and Eddie gives the order to Ben, looking idly back at the stage. Maybe from curiosity, Eddie looks over his shoulder to see what’s got Ben’s attention. Bev’s sitting back and sipping something out of a straw. 

And Eddie walks right into somebody, spitting out, “Oh sorry,” before he can even notice who he ran into. 

It’s somebody about a head taller than him with dark hair and light reflecting off his glasses like some kind of special effect in a horror movie. 

And it kinda scares him in the same way. 

The guy quirks his head and says, volume high with ease, “You’re the new guy, right?” 

“Um. Yeah.” 

“I’m Richie. I think I’m supposed to be training ya.” 

“Eddie.”

Richie gives him a crooked grin and Eddie can’t keep himself from wondering if his glasses are actually tinted and that’s what makes his eyes look so dark. “Cute.” 

“Excuse me?” Eddie’s voice practically leaps an entire octave. 

“Your collar’s up. It’s cute.” Richie abruptly picks up a tray from the bar and ticks his head, saying in a big, grandiose false British accent, “Now, come along, my good fellow, I shall teach you the finer intricacies of serving bever-ah-ges to the masses.” 

 

 

**I** t starts with the rude gum-smacking woman’s table. She takes one sip of her Sex on the Beach and her face contorts. Had Eddie gotten his first specific order  _ wrong?  _ Had he messed it all up? 

She gags, tongue sliding out over heavily painted lips. “Ugh. This is disgusting.” 

Eddie cringes. Oh no…

But Richie just holds his tray against his hip, not covering up his stomach or chest at all, and says, “Well, y’know, the other things you have in your mouth will affect the taste of the drink. Maybe spit out the gum and try something that’ll complement it. I’d suggest something salty, but that taste’s probably already in there, huh?” 

Eddie’s jaw drops. Is...is Richie  _ allowed  _ to talk like that to customers? 

“Y’know,” Richie clarifies, gesturing to the plate in the center of the table. “The tortilla chips.” 

 

 

**O** ver all, that’s the most surprising thing that’s happened so far. It’s not that there’s many “finer intricacies” to bringing drinks from the bar to the tables. In fact, it’s mostly what Eddie’s been expecting. Get the orders, write them down, give it to Ben, bring the drinks out. Repeat.  

And, the more Eddie follows Richie on his heels, the more confident he gets that - at the very least - he’ll be okay at this. Or, at the very least, more professional than the person training him. 

 

 

**B** ut it’s not long till they notice Bev, sitting at the piano, waving her arms, apart from the keys. Richie gives her an abrupt nod, glasses catching the light again, and he turns back to Eddie. “Alas. This is where I leave you - I must take my seat at yonder piano bench.” He drops the folksy accent around the same time he unties the apron from his hips.  “Beverly should be here to help you if you need more training.” 

Eddie doesn’t think he needs it, but he nods anyway, watching as Richie slips onto the stage at the same time Bev slips off. They high-five as they cross paths. It’s corny and silly and Eddie can’t help but smile, a little, at the ease of it all. 

A smile that slips away, entirely, switching into a gaping mess just like earlier, when Richie takes the seat at the piano, immediately yelling into the mic, “Who's ready for some music, motherfuckers?” 

The shock must be clear on his face, because when Eddie returns to the bar to find Ben mixing something and Stan and Bev leaning on the other end, because Ben crinkles his face up and asks, “What?” and Eddie mumbles something about just how... _ brusque _ the he is, both of the other guys laugh. 

“You looked so shocked, Eddie.” Bev says, all nonchalance. As if this is normal for a workplace. “Relax. This is normal stuff around here. We’re a twenty-one plus place.” 

“He abuses it though,” Stan muses. “Constantly.” 

“That’s just Richie,” Ben says, sliding a martini glass over to Stan. “You get used to it with him. He’s a bit of a...what’s the word?” 

“Attention whore,” Stan offers over the lip of his glass. He probably shouldn’t be drinking on the job, but that goes uncommented as he sips at his drink and clarifies, looking right at Eddie, “Don’t get me wrong. We’ve been friends since the third grade. He’s great it’s just...the guy likes the limelight.” 

And...well...yeah. It looks like he does. He’s smiling, huge, and going to town on the keys. It’d be almost charming if he wasn’t so, apparently, hell bent on being the exact opposite of charming. 

In a way, despite the shock value, he is. 


	3. Late Night Insight

**B** y 12:45, most of the crowd has already filed out. Eddie hasn’t had anyone at any of his three tables for at least fifteen minutes and as far as customers go, there’s only a small sampling of drunks hunched over the bar, and one couple, holding hands on the table, locked in some deep conversation, across the room. 

There’s not much to do, and it’s really starting to show: Stan looks like he’s going to fall asleep against the doorframe. Bev and Ben and Mike are all behind the bar, mixing random drinks just to see what they can do, and on the stage. Richie and Bill look less like they’re performing than rehearsing; Richie has sheet music out on the piano and occasionally they shout things to one another, about hitting wrong notes or getting the tempo off. Not that Eddie’s really paying that much attention to that. 

He really only  _ does  _ notice, anyway, when they finish whatever song they were trying to learn and Mike calls from the bar, “I think you’re good to stop playing if you want!” 

Richie slams his hands on the keys, clashing nonsensical chords ringing out from the instrument with a laugh. Exiting stage right, they walk in step and hop up on the bar. Eddie can’t help but he wonders, running a paper towel along the outer edge of the bar, if he really should be sitting up there like that. Though, he supposes, since there’s only a handful of customers left anyway, and Mike isn’t telling him off. Maybe that kind of thing is...normal here. 

Bill’s the first to speak once they hop up, leaning back onto Stanley’s chest from his position on top of the bar. Eddie pretends not to notice. “I just drummed for four hours straight. I can’t feel my arms.” 

Richie, snorts and laughs and says, “Shit, bummer for you, Stan, huh?” 

There’s a loud chorus of groans from the company, punctuated with Bill rubbing his hand over his brow and with Stan’s looking up at the sky like he just wants to break through the roof, saying,  “I think you’re confusing us with you.” 

Richie blinks. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

“We shared a bathroom with you for a year. You’re not the quietest guy in the world.” 

“Oh, you wanna fight this fight, Uris?” Richie laughs, reclining over on the bartop. “Want me to reenact your last birthday, ‘cause I can--” 

“Save the sex noises for later,” Mike says, maybe finally remembering that it’s part of his job to keep things professional, even as he shoots back a decent sized shot, shuddering a little in his shoulders. “At least ‘till you’re off the clock.” 

“Oh, I can do the reenactment on the piano, if that’d help. Bill’s got this musical quality to him--” 

Eddie doesn’t know why his feet decide to stop working independently now, of all times, but he trips over his own feet and ends up clutching the waxy end of the bar. 

“You okay?” Ben asks, a light hand on Eddie’s shoulder as if to help him up, although he retracts when Eddie nods. 

But now everybody’s looking at him, and Eddie can feel the blood rush to his face and Richie even has this dumbass expression on his face and  _ everybody’s still looking at him.  _ Eddie just has to deflect the attention, to something a little less embarrassing. Re-route the conversation. Or at least put it back on track. And that's why he says, “So, are you two  _ together _ ?” 

He doesn’t mean it the way it sounds. Honestly. 

Stan nods, adjusting his arm around Bill as though it isn’t completely fucking obvious anyway. Bill holds up his left hand, revealing a thin gold band and says, “We’re getting married in a couple months.” 

“Oh.” 

Eddie really wishes he could just wipe the egg off his face now, but he’s interrupted by Beverly, one hand on her hip and a defensive edge to her voice when she says, “You’re okay with that, right?” 

It’s almost laughable, at first; the idea that Eddie, of all people, wouldn’t be okay with it. 

But, then again, his new co-workers know exactly jack-shit about him. And even the people who knew the most about him didn’t know exactly how he felt about gay people or queerness or anything under that umbrella. And they sure as hell don't  know  _ why _ . 

So, he says, “Yeah. Yes. Of course I am.” 

Bev lowers her brows, and Eddie’s face is getting hotter and he wishes he hadn’t said anything at all when Richie breaks the silence by twisting open a fizzy drink -- hard lemonade, by the look of it. It fizzes and he raises, murmuring with his lips practically bouncing off the end of the bottle, “Relax, Bev. I got to spend some quality time with Eddie Spaghetti here. He’s uptight; not a fuckin’ bigot.” 

…

Frankly, Eddie doesn’t know if he wants to thank Richie or flip him off. 


	4. Spare Tires

To understand, exactly, how Eddie ended up in this situation, he has to take a few major steps back and consider what he’d done to get his own karma so damn discombobulated. 

One, he’s been spending an awful lot of time at work. His sleep pattern got screwed over about a week after he first started working at the bar. And that was a good three weeks ago. He sleeps till noon and nearly gave his mother a heart attack with his grogginess the last time she called.

So. On the one hand: he’s been working enough to support himself without worrying his mom. On the other hand: he’s been worrying his mom because of the exact same thing.

Maybe that’s where this weird luck comes from. 

Or. On the other hand, maybe it’s because he’s been flirting with Richie. 

Wait. No. That’s not entirely right.  _ Richie’s  _ been flirting with  _ him.  _ It’s really not that big of a deal. Richie flirts with everyone. He flirts with Beverly and with Bill and Stan and occasionally with customers if they seem like they’re game for it. Mike routinely calls him a “potential HR disaster” in staff meetings.

The last time that happened, actually, Richie had winked and responded with “Y’just can’t contain this kind of raw sexuality.” But Eddie overheard him promise Mike he’d tone it down, for the sake of the bar. And he had. Which was around the time Eddie realized that he’d started to like it when Richie flirted with him. Though he was a little glad that he’d gone more low-key for other people. At least marginally so. 

But, really,  the only reason he’s ended up in this situation was because they were short a piano and music stand that night. (Mike was totally freaking out, too. “Why the hell did I book a Dueling Piano act with just one piano?!”)) And Richie had volunteered to get his keyboard from his apartment and Eddie, something possessing him, volunteered to go with to help him carry everything. 

Well, that’s one of the reasons. The other must’ve been something sharp in the road or bad tire maintenance or something like that, because they’d only made it halfway to Richie’s place when the car swiveled and they looped their way around, whiplash threatening at both their necks, to come to a rough halt at the shoulder of the road. 

And now, they’re standing, on the side of the freeway, with cars whizzing by left and right. And Richie’s car is rocking a tire about as flat as the road itself. 

“Fuck,” Richie mutters, looking at it like it’s something alien, and scratching the back of his neck. 

“Yeah. That’s pretty bad,” Eddie won’t sugarcoat it. How long has he been driving around on that thing? He turns to Richie and asks, walking backwards to get to the trunk, “So, are the jack and wrench in the trunk?” 

“Um,” Richie takes his glasses off his face and wipes them on his shirt. “The spare’s back there.” 

“...well, yeah. But we need the things to put the spare  _ on…”  _ And, suddenly, it hits him. He can feel his eyes grow. “Shit. You don’t know how to change a tire, do you?” 

“Pfffft,” Richie makes a big show of it, swiping his hand through the air as he saunters in front of Eddie to get to his trunk, shuffling around for the items. “Of course I do.” 

“Yeah. Sure. Go ahead then.” Eddie takes a big step back and can’t help but laugh when Richie’s face goes totally blank the second he has the tire iron in hand. He snorts and holds out his hand. “Here. Let me.” 

He hands it over, but not before offering to help. Something Eddie rolls his eyes for and says, “Wait over there.”

“Damn man,” Richie shakes his head. “You’re, like, totally emasculating me right now.” 

And Eddie can’t help but laugh at the idea that anyone would think that he, Eddie Kaspbrak, the tiny guy with psychosomatic asthma who regularly got called ‘sissy’ and ‘girly boy’ and ‘homo’ all through his younger years, could ever emasculate someone like Richie Tozier. 

Richie quirks a brow and Eddie smiles, a little, as the tool exchanges hands. He squats down in front of the tire and can tell that Richie’s looking at him, and it makes him want to go faster. Not because he’s nervous, but because he kind of wants to…

Well. He’s not sure. 

Show off, maybe? 

He resolves to just….not think about it as he sets about taking off the rims and loosening the lug nuts with the iron, letting it spin in his hands.

“Well, shit, Eddie,” he hears Richie say. It’s slow and breathy and he can almost hear, amidst the rush of all the other cars to and fro, the flick of a lighter. 

And as much as Eddie doesn’t want to be around smoke, he figures that at least they’re outside while he’s doing it.

The jack fits in pretty easily. It’s better than the old car Eddie used to drive back east. It’d been his mother’s and the one that’d come with the car had disappeared at some point. He lifts it in a matter of seconds and gets to work,

“What?”  He asks, grunting a little as he slides the flat tire off its rim and, almost losing his balance as he rolls it to the side.  “Go get the spare.” 

Richie does, mumbling as he rolls the spare tire over beside Eddie, finally landing on, “I didn’t picture you as a car guy.” 

“What? What does that even mean?”

“Y’know. Working in the garage to refurbish some old sports car from the 50s. Hands always covered in oil and can talk about engines for days.” 

“Oh fuck off.” Eddie snorts. “Can you really see me in that scenario?” 

“Shhh,” Richie hisses, now standing right next to Eddie’s heels, for whatever reason. He’s blocking the streetlight, but Eddie isn’t about to tell him that. “Lemme maintain the fantasy.” 

“Just because I know how to do basic safety maintenance on a car doesn’t mean I’m suddenly your mechanic.” All Eddie can do is roll his eyes as he fastens the spare into place, hazard lights blinking in his periphery. He slides the spare tire into place, letting the tire lock into the posts. Richie says something under his breath that Eddie doesn’t quite get as he finishes screwing the lug nuts back on and jacks the car back down. Finally standing, he claps his hands together and wipes them down with a tissue. 

“Okay. So. Is your mechanic open?” 

Judging by the wide grin on Richie’s face, Eddie regrets it the minute he says it. 

“I dunno. Are you open?” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Eddie sighs. “First: gross. Second: I just told you I’m not your mechanic.” 

Richie shrugs. “It’s like 9:30, so I doubt it. But fuck if I know.” 

Fair enough. Eddie sighs, and helps Richie pick up the old flat tire and toss it into the trunk. “I guess we’re just gonna have to head back then.” 

“What about the keyboard?” 

That’s enough to throw Eddie for a loop. Richie looks so much like...like some kicked puppy. 

“You’re not actually thinking about driving around on this tire, are you? That’s ridiculously unsafe.”

“Oh, c’mon. We’re halfway there. We’ll pick up the keyboard and go back to the bar and then I’ll get my tire replaced with nice ones tomorrow. C’mon, Eds. Just go with it.” 

And, for some reason, he does.  

 

 

 

 

Richie lives in a basement apartment, so tucked away, Eddie probably wouldn’t have even noticed it was there if he hadn’t brought it up. The stairs are narrow and steep and Richie hovers a hand over Eddie’s wrist when he does, saying, “You might wanna grab the railing, just in case.” 

“Do you have any idea how dirty public railings are?” 

“Have it your way,” Richie shrugs and pulls out a jingling keyring in front of a black door with peeling paint and a high peephole. They keyring looks heavy, with the car keys and a large assortments of others. Eddie can’t help but wonder where they all might lead. One for this front door, probably a spare from the bar. Eddie wouldn’t even put it past Richie, or any of his other coworkers, to all have spares for all of their apartments -- they seemed that close. But -- who else?  His parents or maybe a girlfriend or a sibling? Did Richie have any of those? 

The key slides into the lock and he pushes the door open with his shoulder, smiling and saying, “Welcome to Casa de Tozier.” 

Eddie hopes he’s not wrinkling his nose. ‘Cause...it’s not that bad. Really.  “Casa de Tozier” is a warm, Old Spice smelling studio apartment. In its entirety, it’s about the same size as Eddie’s living room.  Against the window, high up on the wall, there’s the keyboard they came for. 

“Hey, I’ll be right back. Piss break.” Richie calls over his shoulder, disappearing into one of the two doors at the edge of the room -- both of which Eddie would’ve assumed were just closets. 

And, with nothing else to do, Eddie finds himself walking wandering through the studio.There’s a Queen-sized mattress on the floor, with plaid blankets wrinkled over it, a futon and a coffee table. There’s a small flat TV and, on the walls, empty six-pack cardboards pinned up like trophies. It’s the only thing on the walls -- except for a poster of the world map, torn in one corner. 

Eddie shuffles around and finds himself in the final corner of the room.  It’s the kitchenette, by the look of it. If you could define half a counter, a coffee maker, and a skinny refrigerator as a  kitchenette. But, he supposes Richie makes do with it. 

On the refrigerator, Eddie notices as he approaches it, there’s a single wrinkly photograph standing on the front, held up by a magnet. 

As Eddie looks at it, he can’t help but grin. It’s old as all hell -- must’ve been from middle school. Richie looks about thirteen. He’s got this floppy mop of hair sitting on his head, big coke-bottle glasses, and he’s wearing a tee with a Hawaiian shirt. Next to him, Eddie can recognize Bev -- the photograph shows her with a short haircut that looks like she did it herself and a rather enormous bruise on her pale forearm. The two of them were seated at a piano, hands over the keys, faces hovering cheek-to-cheek and grins -- Richie’s dopey, Bev’s happy. 

“Ready to go?” Richie calls behind him. 

“Yep,” Eddie turns around from the refrigerator to see Richie bent in the corner, unplugging his keyboard.  “Do you need help with that?” 

Richie shakes his head. “Nah. You saved my ass once already with the tire. I can move a fuckin’ keyboard. If you wanna grab the music stand in the corner, though…” 

“Sure.”  And he does, gripping onto the cold metal of a thin wiry music stand. It breaks in two, one slot of metal sliding out of another. It doesn’t take much to put it back together, it’s made to break apart. But Richie’s laughing at him and now Eddie’s blushing and it’s just a mess. 

So, instead of indulging that, Eddie coughs and redirects the conversation. “So, how long have you been friends with Bev?” 

Richie stands up, cables in his hands and quirks his head over towards Eddie. “Bev? Like...ten years. Why?” 

Eddie gestures to the kitchenette. “The picture on your fridge.” 

“Oh yeah!” And Eddie really wasn’t expecting this to... _ brighten  _ up Richie so much, but all of a sudden, he’s like the fucking Fourth of July, as he winds nimble hands, wrapping the cord between his elbow and the palm of his hands. “‘S how we met. Things were rough in High School...I mean, real rough. The shit they make PSAs out of. And I found out the lunch hour for the choir teacher was the same as mine one year. The room would be empty and she didn’t give a fuck if I sat in there, so long as I didn’t trash the place. Bev found out too, and eventually, we just started playing there on the regular. And that’s how all  _ this _ ,” He gestures to his keyboard, “Got started.”  

“You...taught  _ yourself  _ how to play?” Eddie has to blink. It’s not that Richie’s Mozart or anything, but the guy does know his way around a set of keys, and Eddie’s seen enough of him playing to have assumed he’d been, like, one of those kids forced to learn Fur Elise for their first grade recital. 

“Surprised all this  _ raw talent  _ is self made?” Richie winks. “Well. Kind of. Bev did teach me at the beginning. Like, finding middle C and chords and shit. But the rest of it. That’s all me.” 

“God,” Eddie rolls his eyes and makes his way to the door once Richie has everything together for the trek back to his car. The one with the spare tire. That he was going to  _ drive on _ . Good lord. “First your raw sexuality, and now raw talent? You need to find a new word to use.” 

“The sexuality  _ is  _ the talent, my man.” He says, in some shitty voice that Eddie can’t place to save his life. 

Not that he really thinks he’d want to, anyway.    



	5. Mama's Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep on forgetting to do this before stories or chapters, but apparently this is a thing people do: if you'd like to chat about fic, stories, or whatever, please feel free to hit me up on Tumblr. I'm sporklift there as well. Or you can shoot me an email at sporksiewrites@gmail.com.

**I** t’s almost nice, now that they’ve closed, just the staff moving around the dining room, trying to get everything done. Ben’s wiping up the bar and Stan’s sweeping and Mike’s counting out the register. Bill’s stacking chairs up on the tables and Richie’s packing up his keyboard. 

It was a good call, on Richie’s part, to bring it in. 

The dueling pianos act was a huge fucking success. People didn’t file out until the show ended, exactly at 1:02 and Eddie felt like his feet were about to fall off his legs from the way he’d been running around, but his fanny pack is weighed down heavier with tips than it’s ever been, and there’s something satisfying in locking the front door behind the last patron, even if it’s a full half hour after they were supposed to have closed. 

At least they’re getting it done pretty quickly. And it’s almost their “weekend,” anyway. The bar closes from Monday till Wednesday, so even if it’s at the beginning of the week, it’s easier for Eddie to stay late when he knows that he’ll have three days off in a row. It’s long hours and late nights, but at least he gets something resembling a weekend. Which is probably more than a lot of waitstaff can say, now that Eddie thinks about it. 

He doesn’t have a ton of time to think about it, though, because next thing he knows, they’re starting to file out. Bev is shrugging on her jacket and is pulling a cigarette from behind her ear when she asks him, “Hey, are you coming this week?” 

Eddie has to scramble to wipe down the window so it won’t get streaky with the off-brand Windex. “What?” 

“To dinner?” 

And he must look pretty lost because Bev tilts her head, she’s reaching for the cancer stick and is dangerously close to lighting up even though they’re still inside the building. 

“Tuesday nights, we always have a dinner thing. Didn’t anybody tell you? We trade off houses and everybody brings a dish and we just chill for the night. This week it’s at Stan and Bill’s -- starts around six. Can you come?” 

“Can you invite me to somebody else’s house?” 

But Bev just laughs. “Sure. We were all asking about you last week anyway. Guess we forgot to let you know it’s a thing we do.”

“Guess so,” Eddie wipes up the glass and can’t stop himself from biting at the inside of his cheek. It’s hard to believe that these people who are near constantly around each other through work would opt to spend extra time around each other outside of it. Eddie’s  _ heard  _ of colleagues who like each other and do things outside of the workplace...he just thought it was something of a myth. Like the Tooth Fairy or something. But he’s not about to pass up on friends. So he nods and says, “Stan and Bill’s on Tuesday. I’ll be there.” 

 

 

 

He doesn’t get out of the bar till almost 2. But because it’s his “weekend,” he’ll still be able to get a decent  amount of sleep anyway. 

 

 

 

Or, so he figures, until he’s waking up to the shrill ringing of his phone. Still half asleep, he put the speaker up to his ear without thinking much about it. “Hello?” He mumbles through a yawn. 

And -- immediately -- he wakes up to his mother’s high voice. “Eddie Bear! Thank God. I’ve been trying to call you all morning! I was so worried. Why weren’t you picking up?” 

Throwing the blankets off himself, Eddie sits up, rubbing his brow. “I was sleeping, Ma.” 

“Sleeping? It’s noon. Are you sick?” He can hear it in her voice: she’s frowning and probably pacing around the living room. “Are you sleeping a lot more than normal? You know, sleeping all day was the first sign when your father--” 

“Mom.” Eddie cuts her off. He knows it’s impolite and he probably shouldn’t, but he’d be on the fast track for a CT scan and bone biopsy if he even let her finish that sentence. “It’s fine. I just work late.” 

“How late, exactly?” 

Eddie bites down on the inside of his cheek. “Oh, just till close.” 

His mom didn’t really have to know that close was one in the morning, did she? 

“You work close an awful lot, Eddie. That can’t be healthy -- boys your age need your sleep--” 

“My age?” Eddie echoes as he stands and shuffles his way into the kitchen for coffee. His apartment seems so absurdly big, now - compared to Richie’s, even if it’s only four cozy rooms. “Mom, I’m twenty-three.” 

“You know that the brain isn’t fully developed until twenty-five.” 

_ Like you’ll just stop hovering the second I turn twenty-five,  _ Eddie thinks, sighing at the infantilization and immediately cringes. It’s an incredibly bitchy thing to think and washes a wave of guilt over him. Instead, he says, the image of Stan with his arm around Bill flashing in the reflection of his coffee, “Well, you know, people my age are getting married.” 

“Eddie?” His mother’s voice goes higher, even, than it’s been. “Why would you give  _ that  _ as an example? Eddie, do you have a girlfriend over there?” 

And Eddie’s choking on his cold coffee. He coughs and shakes his head, even though his mother can’t see it. “No, Ma. I... _ definitely  _ don’t.” 

She’s not listening. “Because that would explain your strange behavior lately. You’re sleeping late, you didn’t want to come home to the point you’re working -- and how on earth can you support yourself -- as a  _ waiter --”  _

“I like my job--” 

“You know I’ll always love you, Eddie Bear. But you  _ are  _ living in the city. And Lord knows what kinds of values you’re living around these days, and you did drop everything to move and you’re so adamant about staying there and you did break poor Myra’s heart right out of the blue. So if there is some loose city girl--” 

“Mom.” Eddie places his mug down on the table. He doesn’t know if she can hear it, but he likes to think the emphasis reverberated. “There is no girl. I am not sick. I can afford my rent and utilities. Everything’s fine. My sleep patterns are just a little different because I have to work late. That’s all. Okay?” 

And, she says “Okay,” but Eddie can tell in her voice that she doesn’t really  _ mean  _ it. 

Though, Eddie can’t really blame her for that. He hadn’t exactly announced his move by standing up at the kitchen table and saying, “ _ So, I’m living in my own personal hellhole. This town is bleeding me dry. I need to get the fuck out of dodge and find out what I’m doing with my life.”   _

The actual announcement had been more like: “ _ So, I got this great job out of state, it has great benefits and I made this whole pros and cons list, and I really want to take it, so I have to move in a couple months…”  _

At the time it wasn’t a total lie, after all. It was just...not entirely truthful in its meanings. Sometimes, it’s better than letting the whole truth spill out. 

Because the truth -- the whole truth -- would just cause too many problems. Might as well avoid and evade. Make things easier on everyone involved. 

And, if Eddie’s become a liar in his adulthood, sure. Fine. Maybe lying is a genetic thing. At least he’s not causing problems with it. What’s better - honesty or keeping the peace? 

When he was, like, twelve, he would’ve said honesty in a fucking heartbeat. After all the lies and strain, all he’d wanted was some fucking honesty. 

But, sometimes it’s just not an option.

Like, sure, his mom kept him in his personal hellhole, telling him he’s too sick to function, monitoring everything he’d done until he finally moved away. But -- see -- Eddie knows he’s all she’s got. So, if she knew how much he  _ hated  _ living with her...if she knew how he resented every forced family dinner, every mommy-son date, if she knew how much he needed independence -- and how much that independence scared him. 

It could very well kill her. 

(And if he’s exaggerating, it’s only a little.  And that’s only because he hasn’t even tapped into the more personal, pressing parts that he absolutely does not want to think about, thank you very much.) 

Maybe it’s for his own sanity, or maybe for these reasons, but he keeps it light, after that, asking her about her TV programs, while he’s wiping down his counters. It seems like an obscene amount of counter space - he can have a carafe, toaster, and microwave out all at once and still have enough room to chop up vegetables or whatever. But, it just seems so... _ much.  _

It’s all relative, he supposes, and scrubs up his coffee cup in hot soapy water, listening and making non-committal sounds as his mother outlines the oh-so-exciting plot twists from  _ The Young and the Restless.  _

 


End file.
